Thanksgiving is right around the corner, and if you’re white and from the South like me, that means two things: sweet potatoes and skinheads. Mmhhmmm. Let’s get cookin!!!
To be perfectly honest, I love the South: There’s nothing better than good ol’ Southern cooking. Biscuits, stuffing… with a spread this good, you can hardly notice the two eye-holes cut in your uncle’s white tablecloths! Don’t spoil your appetite on all the gravy, because this turkey’s about to be served once Gam-Gam carefully removes all the dark meat from the poultry, as is tradition.
This is where the night takes a turn for the worse. Sure, I can turn a blind eye to my uncle’s drunken cheering of the Washington Redskins, despite him having zero connection to the team before all the name controversy. But there is no escape from the odious dinner table conversations with my alt-right cousins.
“The answer is no, Braxton, the ‘neo-Marxist libtards of college’ have not tried to turn me into a ‘gay frog’ yet.”
“No, Dreyson, I will not use the ‘Stand Your Ground Law’ on my Pakistani roommate, why on earth would you ask me that?”
“Wylson, I swear to god please stop asking me about the homosexual agenda, I have absolutely no idea what that means.”
Since becoming an educated adult, Thanksgiving has slowly become a worse and worse holiday. No longer can I wistfully romance about the values of white colonialism with my friends and family. Now, I actually have to have a real-life argument over the importance of gender equality and unravel the terrible bag of worms that is “to what extent America was actually ever great.”
But don’t pity a city-boy democrat such as me, for although I may have cousins with necks redder than the Florida midterm results, at least the changing climate and ocean tides will finish the job that the blue wave failed to complete. For now, I’ll just sit back and try to enjoy the charismatic German twist of my town’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Plus, I hear the cold front might even bring in some heil this year. Yikes.